No English

When everything is done right, we never have to actually interact with modern society at all. We show up, the Gards point at a car for us to transfer, or pull out of a hedge, or building, culvert, ditch, lake, river, wall, whatever, and we're on our way. The only time I have to actually say something to someone other than a Gard is when I shout out my lorrie window at the bastard that cut me off and forced me to slam on my brakes and then row through all my gears again to get back up to speed. Man, I hate that. Please don't cut trucks off.

Oh, and occasionally I am criticized for my parking. Sorry, but one of the precious few perks working recovery for the state police is the fact I can park wherever the hell I need to.



"Seriously? You're gonna park there?", a tweed-cladded man hissed at me in disdain.

I was parked halfway up a curb again, about to head in to a news agent.

"Where on Gods green Ireland am I supposed to park a thirty foot long truck in Clondalkin Village?".

"You can park it down the street there so us folk can walk on this pathway here!" He made a few jerky motions I didn't pay much attention to. "Not on a double yellow! Can't you see this?!" He pointed down, seemingly with as much effort as he could muster.

"Oh, that's what those lines mean. Thanks for that." I'll admit I hadn't known what those lines meant before today. We don't do the double lines near a curb thing in The States. But I think we both know the effect that statement was going to have on the codger.

Before he could start again, I walked toward him a few steps, then back a few. I looked at him as he took a step backwards, glaring at me, confusion starting to slowly creep into his eyes. I took a few more steps, shrugged, and then looked vaguely in the direction he may have been indicating earlier.

"What in the -"

I cut him off with a, "Hmmm!", and stomped the tarmac a couple of times. "This sidewalk still seems to work." I gave an overemphasized nod in approval, then gave the man a thumbs up, then locked the truck with a very loud *BEEP* using the remote, then quickly went in to the news agent. I decided to deny the exchange ever happened if he called in to complain.

I just wanted a pack of Lucky Strikes. Was that too much to ask for?

Before long it was night again. I mostly work nights, and will oftentimes swap shifts. Though I am sort of a loner, I mostly like the relative peace and quiet and lack of traffic. The calls get a lot crazier, which I was OK with... mostly.

"Grangecastle? You mean the area that looks like a bomb went off, Grangecastle?", I asked Ray.

"Yep. They don't make them like they used to, though..."

I turned a tight corner and saw the spectacle I was meant to be a part of. In the middle of the street, standing slightly askew, was a new Audio S4, silver in color. Surrounding it were roughly half a dozen Gards. Another three or four of them were milling about, looking in bushes and such. I had the feeling they hadn't actually caught their man before calling me in this time. I flip the truck around and back it up to the Audi. The Gards come up to me quickly as I leave the truck.

"Hey, so. Sure, like, we've not actually caught our man before we rang you this time. So, we've a bit of a search goin' on at the moment. We've no keys for it, either. Sure, why don't ya go on and shackle the yoke up and we'll look after you, like?"

"Sure", I shrugged. I was nonplussed. It seemed unlikely some gang member was going to come at me from the bushes with so many Gards about. I quickly went about my business. The Audi was up on the bed of the rollback wrecker in no time and I was about to raise it and secure the back end of the car when I noticed someone coming at me from the bushes. I glanced around and fell in to a bit of a panic when I realized all the Gards were gone. ALL of them - gone - like fucking Ninjas.

"I'm right here, Fucker! Gimme back my fucken car or I'll fucken stab you, you fuck!", is what I thought he said, but his accent was so thick I could have been mistaken; it's also likely I've left out a 'fuck' or two. For a brief moment I thought about my revolver, but that revolver was back in Texas, and I wasn't in Texas any more.

He was in front of me now; one of the few people I had run in to in Ireland that was my own height.

"I said give me my fuck... fucken car!!!", he shouted directly in my face. The man had clearly been drinking and smoking for hours and hours. It was only by God's own grace he didn't manage to spit all over me as he barked. Between my panic and the smell of him, it was all I could do to focus. Surely the Gards are hearing this? I mean, their cars are still here. And, well, they were just fuckin' here themselves. I began to realize that I had to address this idiot before he decided to resort to violence. I couldn't greet him the Texas way - with a gun. So, I resigned to greet him the Mexican way.

I looked at him, smiled, and said,

"No English."

"Fuck!!!", He turned violently, ran over to the cab of my truck, yanked the keys from the ignition, and threw them in to the bushes, punctuating the action with a loud, "Fuck!".

This had the immediate effect of shutting down the diesel's power take-off. What the man could not have known was that the truck could not disengage the wench that was still hooked to the car's undercarriage without that PTO being operable. Without those keys, neither of us were leaving with our vehicles. This made me angry - very, very angry. I decided I needed to share this anger with Mr. Fuck.

I started towards the bastard as he climbed on to bed of my lorrie, his own keys in hand. The bed was still at enough of an angle that he likely thought he could drive it back down to street level. He had unlocked the door and just kicked a leg in when I reached him. I grasped his belt and began to pull him back with my left hand while my right hand started to come around the other side of my body in anger. This man didn't know it, but he was about to get the fucking kidney-punching of his fucking life. At least, that's what I had planned.

My arm suddenly couldn't move! I snapped my head around to see a Gard had managed to stop me hitting the man. I must have telegraphed that punch all the way from Kenosha. At the same moment I released Mr. Fuck with the other hand, the other Gards instantly jumped him. I myself was released as well. The man who had my arm joined the fray after giving me a quick nod.

So now we've got an Audi, tilted at a fairly steep angle on the back of my lorrie, with Mr. Fuck and an entourage of Gardai all pretending they are in a bar fight. A bar fight inside an Audio S4. That's a damn tight bar. I lit a cigarette.

Mr. Fuck was not making things remotely easy on the police. It was all the men could do to get the guy mostly out of his own vehicle. At one point I thought I could lean in and get a couple of pokes at the guy while he was preoccupied, but just when I had an opening, the Gards denied me once more.

*Snick snick snick!!!* At least three Gards had flicked out their expandable steel batons. I knew better than to get in the middle of things now. One Gard was pressing a baton in to the center of the man's back. It hurt just to look.

"Fuuuuuck! Fuuuuuck! All of yous! Fuck! Get off me! Fucking get off me!"

"Give it up! Get on the ground or I will hit you!"

"Fuuuuuuck! FUCK!", etc.

The Gard hit Mr. Fuck, and hit him hard. Without a functioning knee cap, Fuck collapsed to the ground. The Gards had him in handcuffs before he could roll into a little ball. Two Gards immediately collapsed onto Fuck, obviously glad that all of them were immobile. I contemplated giving the bastard a kick for throwing my keys.

"Here's your keys." I turned and one of the Gards handed me my keys.

"Wow. Thanks, man."

"Is your lorrie alright? Are you alright then?"

"Oh, yeah. He didn't touch me; truck's fine. Where the hell were you guys?"

I was told they thought they had seen someone in the darkness and went to chase. Then they heard the commotion I was in and returned. They stopped me from punching the man because they were afraid he would have retaliated, and much more violently. I couldn't help but feel that I had been used as bait. They found my keys sort of quickly, I thought.

As we walked past Mr. Fuck, he noticed us conversing even over his own swearing and pain.

"You fucking speak English!"

"And better than yourself.", said the Gard, whom with one decisive shove, stuffed Fuck into the back of a Garda van.

"Cheers" we all said, and went about on our own ways.